Photograph
by My Friends Call Me Cookie
Summary: Finley can't remember the last time she saw Derek Hale cry. It was so long ago that just thinking about it, she probably would have been dammed to Hell for thinking it! So, all she could do was wrap her weak arms around the large alpha, and whisper in his ear, "I've got you, Daddy. You don't have to cry anymore." Watching it, Isaac knew she was better. He also knew, he was in love.
1. Prologue

**Full Summary: The day Finley Elizabeth Hale was born, she was left on the side of the road to die. Then Derek saved her. She's not even human, which makes her fit in with the Hales just fine. But now, there's a problem. She's "dead." She has been for the past eight years. Derek's shady version of Witness Protection has her based in Australia with very, very, _very_ distant cousins. Now there's an even bigger problem. She's back. Her presense forces Derek to be the father he vowed to be when he was only five years old. It brings a feud between werewolf and hunter to a simmering ash. It makes a retired veterinarian rethink his choices in life. It even brings love for a certain curly-haired werewolf. Of course, what's a little life story without some problems? The woman who burned her family alive, the one Finley vowed to exact her revenge on...Well, she's already dead. Right? Well, there's a reason some ghosts need to crossover...**

* * *

"Who's that?"

"She's just someone in my family."

"Out in Australia, like your cousins?"

"No, she died a long time ago."

"In the Hale Fire?"

"Yeah, in the Hale Fire."

* * *

Derek doesn't know how many times he's lied about _Her_. He also doesn't know how many times he's thought about her. He's tried, really, to count the amount of times he thinks of her in the day. But he always got lost around the category of triple digits. The truth is he never stops thinking about her. She was always there, in his head, in his thoughts, in his memory. She was embedded into his flesh and his heart, never once leaving to be replaced by a scar. She was a large, open wound. She gaped, breathing in air, only getting worse.

She was Finley Hale and instead of having burned in that dreaded fire, like he claimed, she was well and alive. She was sitting in Australia, packing her bags. Where was she going? She'd like to think, _"Home…"_

* * *

"Who's that?"

"Who are you talking about?"

"That boy, the one in the picture."

"What about him?"

"You look at that picture all the time."

"It's a nice picture."

"Because he's in it. Who is he?"

"No one; he's dead."

"Oh…"

* * *

Finley doesn't know how many times she's had to lie about _Him._ She doesn't know how many times she's watched the full moon and wondered, _"Is he okay?"_ She can never count how many times she's jumped at the sound of a phone ringing, hoping it's him. She hates being "dead." She hates it so much. _But it's the only way I'm safe._

She boards a plane, her best friend waving from the window. She waves back and continues on her way. The whole flight, she wonders, _"Can he feel my presence coming?"_ The whole flight, she knows she's done a terrible thing.

_Because as of today, I'm not safe._


	2. The Bitch You Wouldn't Want to Piss Off

_There it is again_, he thinks. _Why do I keep feeling that?_

Derek sat there, wondering just why he'd been having that same feeling returning to him all goddamn day!

He'd first felt it when he woke up that same morning. He'd tossed and turned all night, hardly caring for the sounds of Erica and Boyd having another petty fight over Monopoly. But then again, he'd hardly cared for them in general. At least, he hadn't really cared since they'd developed a romantic relationship of the sort.

He sometimes gagged at the affectionate ways Boyd would touch her, bracing her fingertips on the hairs of her arms, the knuckles of her fingers, the moistness of her lips, even when he held her to him in the morning as he always did. He'd gag even more if he ever heard Erica whisper sweet encouragements in his ear whenever the tall black boy became frustrated with things like lukewarm water, bad training accidents and as always…Stiles.

But all of it aside, the feeling in his chest, like a deep burning and a softer cooling, woke him up from his dream of a red-headed three year old girl he remembered very clearly to this day. His fingers touched at the flesh over his heart and dug into it. The feeling remained, and then left seconds later. And for the rest of the day, every hour from that last feeling, it would return, burning at his heart and then cooling off ever so slightly.

"Is there something wrong," came a voice. There was a small figure waiting at the foot of his stairs. A blonde woman with dimples in her cheeks when she smiled watched him, eyes adjusting to the light. _She woke up from her nap_, he thought. She took several tiny steps towards him, stopping behind him as he returned to facing the nearly remodeled living room. He'd only just begun fixing the damn house after nearly a decade of being a leftover crisp from a psychotic break. Her arms reached over and wound themselves around his waist. Her chin poked in between his shoulder blades.

"No," he replied as his body relaxed and melted into her warm embrace. He felt the stiffness leave his body as the feeling went away. "Why do you ask?"

She smiled at him, her brown eyes roaming over the hairs on his neck. They were standing up, pronouncing his rigid state to her.

"You're still a werewolf Derek. You have certain doggy traits that just give you away." He laughed with her.

Derek turned around, his black eyes roaming over her face. She was such a damn beautiful thing. He'd always known, ever since he met her in that supermarket last year. The moment she busted his mayonnaise was the same moment Derek knew he'd been thrown into God's funny way of saying, "Here's your prize for being such a good sport in all the shit I've put you through!" But then again, he'd never really believed in God anyway.

"Clary," he muttered as his fingers reached up to knot in her hair. She raised an eyebrow. "Sometimes I wonder what it's like to be normal. Just to go a day, a whole day, without all this bullshit I've been thrown into ever since the Hale Fire…"

"Well," Clary mused, "we could always ask Stiles. But then again, he's not really normal either." She smiled at him, her dimples poking out from her cheeks, just how he loved. He couldn't resist anymore, so he kissed her.

An hour later, as he lay in bed with her blonde head resting on his stomach as she always preferred, the feeling returned, only this time, it just burned. There was no slight cooling. It simply…burned.

* * *

She strode up to the house, black hood over her head to mask her scent as best it could. She'd never really perfected that stupid spell that hid her smell from certain extended abilities. Being the kind of person Supers wanted dead, she preferred to not be smellable, hearable, or seeable. But then again, she'd preferred to be alive. Instead, she was "dead."

Instead of marching onto the porch and kicking in the door, she stayed in the trees, watching the light in Derek's old room switch off. She hid her cold hands in the pockets of her hoodie. Her breath fogged in front of her and out of instinct (more like _boredom_), she began to form shapes with her breath's fog, making rabbits and birds, even a little black-haired boy from a certain picture hiding in her suitcase.

_Crack!_

Shit.

She crouched down behind the trunk of a large tree, her hands reaching for her combat boot. Pale fingers reached the metal blade and pulled it from the confines. She wrapped her fingers around it, then proceeded to cut a rune into her skin, muttering in Latin, "_Ut Dea Protection invenient me in mea exhibito, horam et contutari_." The blood dripped down her forearm as she stood up in haste, watching the dark, lanky figure run through the trees. She gasped as a second shadow followed him, nose lifted in the air. _There are more of them_, she thought. _But they were the only ones!_

She was knocked into a tree.

"Fuck!" She looked up to see an auburn-haired boy her age with glowing azure eyes. He looked confused, but protective. As if she'd crossed onto his property…

"Who the hell are you?" His voice was deep and cocky, but menacing and very, _very_ threateningly demanding.

Instead of answering his question, her hand pushed up, digging the metal blade into his abdomen. He growled in pain, rolling off of her, she back-rolled onto her feet and stood with perfect grace. Her hands dusted the soil from her dark jacket as she watched him groan in pain.

"Shit! That hurt!" She lifted her head to the right, eyes glowing to see a handsome curly-haired boy floating in the air, his body pressed against an oak tree. Nothing touched him. His hands were wrapped around his throat, trying to break from the neck-wrenching hold. Her emerald eyes glowed brighter as she looked back to the auburn-haired boy.

"To answer your question," she spoke loudly as she dropped her arm. The curly-haired boy fell along with it. She felt the magick leave her fingertips. "I'm the bitch you wouldn't want to piss off."

"FINLEY ELIZABETH HALE!"

_Hmmmm_, she thought._ Why is that phrase so familiar?_


	3. Porcelain Face

She's beautiful.

That's the first thing that comes to Isaac's mind as he watches her bring her things into his apartment. It's the only thing he thinks about when Derek paces in front of her in his tiny space of a living room/kitchen. Matter of fact, it's the only thing capable of leaving his brain.

"I can't believe you, Finley," Derek snaps at the red-headed girl. Her curly, bright red hair is released from the hood of her jacket and falls over her shoulders and past her breasts to her naval. Her bright, pale skin glows in the dim lighting of the younger boy's apartment. Her moss green eyes look up into the man's black ones as he continues to yell.

"You're supposed to be in Australia with Lucas and Maeve! _What the hell are you thinking, coming down here?"_ She rolls her eyes as he places his hands at his hips. His jacket, along with Finley and Isaac's, is draped over the counter of Isaac's tiny kitchen. His v-neck wrinkles from his abusive fists. "Well," he demands. "What are you going to say to that?"

She lifts a pale brown eyebrow at him in question as she lets out a, "Umm, oops?"

"Yeah," he starts yelling again. "Oops better be coming out of your damn mouth right now. You goofed up big time, kid!"

"Hey!" her voice leaves her mouth, sweet honey reaches Isaac's ears. "I'm no damn kid, got it," she screams back as her eyes begin to glow again. Magick reaches her fingertips again and Derek can tell. Her fingers start sparking red and orange.

"Put the Death Fingers away, Finley or so help me God," he growls, "I will murder your magick privileges."

Her eyes widen as she feels the sparks stop.

"You wouldn't," she whispers in shock.

Derek watches her with wary eyes, "I have his number on speed dial."

She scowls at him and slumps back in the couch, her arms crossed over her chest. The blue tank top gave both wolves a modest view of her cleavage. Derek didn't bother, though. She wasn't the kind of person he'd want to be checking out.

The older wolf moves closer to her, careful not to come into full contact with her as he puts his hand under her chin and lifts her face to meet his. He turns it left, right, then left again before sighing.

"Alright, do Lucas and Maeve know you're here?" She nods. "Okay, there are no Shadow Marks on you so I guess I can handle you being here for awhile. But _no_ funny business, alright?" She nods again.

"Yes Dad," she mutters. He looks at her with sad eyes before grabbing his leather jacket and quietly slipping out the door.

The room is silent except for the inhales and exhales of both _Incantarix _and werewolf. Isaac watches her, the way her hair doesn't frizz in the cool environment of his apartment like Lydia's hair or the way she doesn't shiver like Allison does when Scott has her over during Pack Meetings. He just notices that her fingers glow when she's mad. _What the hell is she_, he thinks before offering her his bed for the night.

* * *

Clary watched Derek sleep. It was comforting in a way, knowing such a brooding man could sleep so calmly without a single care in the world. Her lips twitched in a smile as she lifted a single picture from his mantle.

Immediately, she recognized Derek in the group of people known as the Hale family. Even then, he'd been a handsome thing. His black eyes were chocolate back then, and his dark hair had been shaggy and unkempt. He was small and frail, but Clary knew better. She knew that fragile little boy wasn't a fragile little boy anymore.

Beside him was a girl with dirty-blonde hair and matching chocolate eyes. _Laura_, she remembered. Dead long before Clary arrived in her lover's life. She grieved slightly at the idea that Derek was practically alone. Peter was between then, one hand on their shoulders, his mouth grinning with a joy you hardly saw him wear these days. Clary knew better about that one, too.

But she was confused. She'd never noticed the little red-headed girl in the picture. She must have been only three or four when the photo was taken because she was barely seen, but she was there alright, sitting at Derek's feet, holding onto his leg with a big grin on her mouth, showing to the world she was missing her two front teeth. Her green eyes sparkled with pure young joy. Derek was looking down at the little girl. She sighed, realizing there was more to this man than he already told her. And believe it or not, he had told her _a lot_.

The rest of the family surrounded them, Derek's parents on Peter's left side, holding each other in a loving embrace, one similar to the kind Clary and Derek have. Her arms wrapped around his middle from behind. She smiled softly. _If only I knew him before_, she mused.

She set the picture down and picked up another one. This one she'd asked about once already. She never noticed that this little red-headed tween existed in his life before the photo was taken until tonight.

She held an amaryllis flower in her hand, the bud freshly opened as she smiled at something far off, but angled in a way you could see her porcelain face perfectly, her eyes glowing bright emerald green. Her hair was curly and wild, the wind blowing strands away from the elegant bun it was placed in. She remembers asking about the photo once.

* * *

"_Who's that?" she asked as she picked up the frame. She'd been fascinated by the burnt house just five minutes before but now the photo replaced the interest. Derek stood behind her._

"_She's just someone in my family." His voice sounded soft and sad, but rigid and broken. She turned around and looked at him. Her brow furrowed._

"_Out in Australia, like your cousins?"_

"_No, she died a long time ago."_

_Her eyes widened. And she thought she'd heard enough at the diner during their "Not-a-lunch-date."_

"_In the Hale Fire?"_

_He hesitated before he nodded. "Yeah, in the Hale_ _Fire." Three seconds later he kissed her._

* * *

She places the picture back on the mantle before padding over to the bed she's shared with him numerous times. She lays down at his side and lifts her hand to his cheek.

"Why is everything so hard for you," she whispered, before closing her eyes for the night.


	4. Always Is, Never Not

Dr. Deaton remembered the last time he'd seen Finley Hale.

She was a short, frail figure with wild hair and freckled, pale cheeks. Her hands had been dripping with blood and the gashes on her shoulders and chest had soaked through Derek's large shirt she always wore. Her eyes, once small and bright, were large and mossy. Her face resembled that of trauma-like fear. And that's exactly what was wrong with her.

Because to this day he remembers what she had said to him as he wrapped her wounds in a healing gel and gauze. Because of those words, he remembers her all too well.

* * *

"_I hope she suffers."_

_He stops applying the gel to the wound on her collarbone, looks at her with confused eyes. He stands up straight, looks down at her from his height. "What did you say, Sweets?"_

_Her lips twitched at the name. It'd been forever since she'd heard that name from his lips. He was the only one allowed to call her that. He was her savior when she went through her physical trials. And he'd never had a smart mouth with her. He was always…gentle, and good-natured. But only with her._

_The small smile left her mouth as quickly as it came. She looked up at him through dirty, red hair with eyes wide and dark. Her lips moved and the words that left her were as shocking to her as it was to him._

"_Kate," she whispers. "I hope she suffers. When it's time for her to die, I hope she burns, just like she made my family burn."_

_The next day, she'd left Beacon Hills, pronounced dead at the scene of the arson. Just like her family, she had become a pile of ashes in the rummage of her once "home."_

* * *

To see her again, sitting in his office, on the examining table was barely a surprise. He had sensed her. The familiar burning in his chest he'd experienced two days ago was a little reminder that no, she wasn't a pile of ashes. But it was a warning, because this "pile of ashes" was in his wake.

She was strapped to the bone with weapons, leather holsters for her daggers, protection runes scarred into her skin, and the pearls he'd shown her to carve out of stone for explosive results. Of the magickal kind, anyway. It was something he was never really proud of teaching her, until she learned _when_ to use them and what for. There'd been several incidents where Peter had to drag a werewolf into his veterinary office with a hole blown in his side due to several ill-mannered pranks. _Hmm, now whose fault was that_, he'd thought bitterly each time.

"Deaton," she acknowledged. He gave her a nod in return as he set down his suitcase and coat. She looked well and alive, he noticed. Her skin wasn't as pale as the day he'd last seen her. She was back to her healthy glow (or, at least as healthy as porcelain white skin can look), and toned with soft girlish muscles in her arms, stomach, and legs. She'd been training.

Her naval-length hair had been pulled into a large carousel brain on to top of her head, baby wisps of hair falling around her freckled face, letting him know she'd gotten sun in Australia. Her eyes were still dark and mossy, though, and very big. Her eyes had changed, almost doe-like, yet beautiful of the dark sort. The brown industrial leather vest was zipped up halfway to reveal the name of a band on her shirt. Something in French, he realized. And her legs were clad in black skinnies and combat boots.

_She's changed all together,_ he thought.

"It's been awhile, Doc," she whispers to him. But the space is empty so it sounds as if she were talking at a normal volume.

"Yes," he replied as he began to open up his cabinet for the day's files. Everything had been rearranged. "I see you've kept yourself busy with my files again. Clearly, your OCD hasn't left you."

Her mouth twitches in a smile as she hops down from the examination table. "Yup," she offers.

"Why do you insist on rearranging my things?"

"Because you never were an organized man, Uncle Dea." He smiles and turns around from the cabinet to wrap her in a hug well needed. She inhales his scent and sighs at the smell of his old magick stuck to his clothes. She hums to the sound of his heartbeat and lets the warmth of their embrace take her into a magickal oblivion. "You've been practicing…"

The black man chuckles in response. "Yes, well, your father is a pain in the ass when I'm trying to quit."

"He can't help it," she mutters. "Trouble was born in his blood. He's like an addiction for trouble."

"Always is, never not."

* * *

Clary is in his apartment, cooking lunch for him, because unfortunately, Isaac is not the greatest of cooks. To put it in simpler terms…He burns water.

She's rummaging through his cabinets, finding spices and seasonings and different kinds of vegetables. It's the first time she's actually put the effort into being healthy. She's a total pig when it comes to food. She'd rather consume fifty pounds worth of Twinkies than have a gap between her thighs. But ever since the Anemia-Lukemia Scare, she's been putting a large effort with a Health Kick.

And the thing about Clary is that she's the Pack Mom. It comes with the price of loving an Alpha, especially the "Derek Kind," as she referred to them one day in conversation with a moody Allison. And when the Pack Mom is on a diet, so is everyone else.

"So," Isaac starts as he towel dries his hair from his noon-time shower. He's had a habit of being extremely clean lately, though no one knows why. "Do you know anything about Finley?"

She looks up at him, pausing with the pasta sauce, before looking back down and stirring it up again.

"No," she replied. "I didn't really know she existed until the night you caught her outside the house. As far as I knew, she was dead."

Isaac looked confused. "Is that what Derek told you?"

She nodded. "Yeah; but I figure he had his reasons for falsifying her death. I mean, from what you look like, she looks like someone the Argents would have gone after. Especially Kate."

Isaac grimaced at the memory from two nights ago. He'd been patrolling the Hale Manor with Jackson when the smell of something lilac and bright hit their noses. Without even touching them, she'd broken one of Isaac's ribs and Jackson's shoulder blades. All she did was move her hand.

Clary was right, she does seem like the kind of person Derek would want to keep safe if he knew her as well as he thought he did.

"She called him, Dad." Clary looked up with wide eyes just as the door to Isaac's apartment slammed open. Finley stepped in.

She slapped her combat boots around the apartment before throwing herself on the couch.

"Sorry about the door," she mutters, "but I don't have a key."

Clary watches her with wide eyes and pure excitement. She straightens her spine and comes across determined to Isaac as she speaks loudly enough for Finley to hear.

"Who are you, exactly, to Derek?"


End file.
